One Word
by previouslysane
Summary: I was doing one-word Sherlock fic requests. I had a lot of requests and I decided to compile them here. My favorites are 'Sorry' and 'Don't'. You can decide yours, if you'd like. No smut, really, but there are vague sex scenes.
1. Prom

"What was your prom like, Sherlock?" John said, resting the paper down on the sofa next to him. Sherlock looked up, his eyebrows raised.

"Are you trying to make a joke?" he frowned.

"No. I was just curious." He shrugged.

"The fact that you even entertained the idea of me at a prom is hilarious enough." Sherlock said. There was a silence before Sherlock sighed pointedly. "Is this one of those things where you want me to ask the question that you asked me?"

"Sort of."

"Fine." Sherlock hissed. "How was your prom, John?" His tone dripping with sarcasm.

"It was lovely." John responded. "I went with Danielle Potts, long-time girlfriend. She broke up to me once I told her about the army."

"Fascinating." Sherlock said insincerely. John smiled, picking up the paper and unfolding it in front of him.

"You look dashing in a tux, by the way. Blue is your color." John said, nonchalantly. Sherlock's eyes widened and a pink tinge appeared on his cheeks.

"Mycroft." Sherlock breathed angrily.

"Yes." John lowered the paper, his eyes glinting playfully. "The girl?"

"Cousin." He grumbled. "She had a terrible time."

"I'm not surprised." John said, raising the paper again.


	2. Hair

John was waiting around in Mycroft's study for Sherlock to return when he noticed a photo on Mycroft's desk. He looked back at the door and lifted it. A little girl about 7 years old with a tiny face and intense eyes sat shirtless inside of a sink. She was clutching to a tiny violin, glaring at the camera. Her inky black curls flowed over her shoulders and curled into her face. This girl be Sherlock's twin.

"Oh." Sherlock said. "You've seen that." He entered almost completely silently and John jumped.

"Who is she?" John asked. Sherlock frowned slightly.

"That's me."

John's eyebrows raised. "But… the hair—"

"I didn't get my first haircut until I was 12." He said, his jaw set. "I wouldn't let anyone touch me."

John looked back at the photo with a new perspective and could clearly see Sherlock in the little face now. He glared into the camera as though trying to deduce the photo-taker, clutching his tiny violin. John found himself smiling. He looked back to Sherlock and realized that Sherlock was staring at him thoughtfully.

"That's strange."

"What is?"

"You didn't ask why."

"I've learned that there are some things about you that simply are. There's no explaining your quirks."

Sherlock hesitated before smiling and leading John out of the room.


	3. Masturbation

"John? John! I need your help on th—" Sherlock burst through John's door and stopped at the sight. John's pants were open and he was heavily involved with himself. John stopped for a moment, looking toward Sherlock and sighed heavily.

"Seriously—"

Sherlock didn't hear the rest as he shut the door. His face was flushed, embarrassed at what he had just seen but couldn't pinpoint why. He couldn't complete the experiment without John's assistance so he put the vial away for now. He slipped downstairs and made himself a cup of tea, not certain what he should do, all thoughts of John in his mind.

John appeared downstairs, thirty minutes later.

John sighed. "Sherlock—"

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said quickly. "I— I didn't mean—"

"You need to understand that privacy—"

"Yes—" Sherlock said. "I just never entertained that you would do those sort of…. tasks."

"Well I don't usually, but I've been single for quite some time— you know how it is."

"I don't."

"I'm sorry?" John blinked. "Are you saying that you're… I mean… completely—"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "I just… it never appealed—"

"Okay." John said steadily. "You knock before you come into my room or the bathroom. That's it."

"I'm sorry."

"I understand, Sherlock. I'm not mad. I'm just a bit annoyed." John said. "Alright?"

Sherlock replied slowly. "Alright."


	4. Magic Bananas

"Her child was only alive for two years, it's not like she had time to create a bond with it." Sherlock said. John pinched his nose.

"No… Sherlock. Not… that's not good at all."

"Hell!" Sherlock growled. "How am I supposed to know?"

"I don't know, Empathy?" John sighed. "Okay. We need to have a word, you can't be doing this all the time in public."

"A word?"

"Magic Bananas." John said, looking around the kitchen to come up with a word. "I'll say it before you embarrass yourself."

"I don't care about embarrassing myself, and magic bananas is two words."

"Do it for me." John said irritably.

"Fine." Sherlock said. "Only if we make it simply 'Magic' or 'Bananas'."

"Fine. 'Magic' it is then." John said, leaning back in his chair. Sherlock smiled.

"Now that we have officially established a safe word, let's go for dinner." Sherlock chuckled at the stricken look on John's face.


	5. Sorry

"Sherlock, do you see how much you upset Mummy?" Mycroft sighed. Sherlock stared wordlessly at his brother, clutching the violin. It was like his security blanket, he took it with him everywhere and would play if he was unable to describe something. "You're 7 years old, Sherlock. I know you're smart enough to speak."

Sherlock wouldn't look Mycroft in the eyes and plucked at the strings of his little violin. He looked guiltily at the ground.

"Apologize to her." Mycroft demanded. Sherlock frowned and looked up at Mycroft. He angrily pulled out a few deep, fast notes from his violin. "No use trying to get angry with me, Sherlock. You can't deny that you're the source of her distress." Sherlock barred his teeth and pointed at Mycroft. "No it's not." Mycroft said calmly at his accusation. "Go to her room and see for yourself."

Sherlock's face flashed from anger to confusion to resigned guilt. He stepped tentatively from the playroom to his mother's bedroom. She sat on her bed. She was surrounded by ornate bedspread, still in her nice tea party clothes. She was so beautifully sad that the only word that could describe her distress was 'weeping'. She was weeping. She looked round towards Sherlock and let out a breath.

"What did I do wrong, Sherlock?" She said softly. "Where did mummy go wrong? Why don't you speak, darling?"

Sherlock brought his violin up to his chin and prepared to play an apologetic song when his mother stood up and put her hands gingerly on his.

"No, darling. No! I… I want to hear your voice. Your lovely human violin." She stared at him for the longest time and Sherlock stared back. Her eyes welled up with tears before she turned away from her son. "Okay." she whispered. "Alright." She slipped off her shoes and returned to her bed. Sherlock reached after her, but she slipped through his grasp. Sherlock followed her to her bed where she slipped under her covers, still dressed beautifully. Sherlock placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered,

"I'm sorry, Mummy."

She froze and turned around, her blue eyes wide with shock.

"What did you say?" She breathed.

"I said… I'm sorry for upsetting you." He apologized in a tiny voice. She smiled shakily, her tears of sadness changing now to tears of joy.

"It's alright dearest." She whispered, pulling him into a hug. "Your voice is beautiful. It's alright."


	6. Fall

The worst part is that John had to see it happen. He had to catch the last panicked look that Sherlock sent him before he grabbed Moriarty and fell, too slowly all too slowly. John tried to call out to Sherlock but the only noise that came out of his mouth was a strangled scream. He flung his hand out to Sherlock. It was no use 20 yards away.

He had to see Sherlock fall. He had to see it. Why? Why would the circumstances add up so that he had to view his demise in this way? Why? Why…?

John tried to stave off the panic that he felt. Sherlock wasn't dead just yet. The falls were very high. Soon he would be hitting a rock or splatting hard in the foamy waters below, the sound of either would be masked by the sound of the water. This was the worst he had ever felt, in this moment. Sherlock falling to his death. Sherlock still being alive but absolutely nothing that anyone could do in time to save him. In a few seconds, he would be dead, but for now… he was alive.

John was on his knees, his eyes shut tight. Language failed him as Lestrade stormed up the hill behind him.

"Where's he gone to now?" Lestrade said. "John?" Lestrade froze at the sight of John on his knees. John had to force the words from the coldest, deepest part of his heart.

"He fell." lips shaking, voice a cracking whisper. "Sherlock and Moriarty went over the falls."


	7. Jocular

Jokes were obviously something that Sherlock was not very good at. He would make a cynical comment on something that someone else would cynically smile at, mostly to appease Sherlock's gaze. He'd never been able to make someone laugh because everyone was so frustrated when they saw him.

Not with John. Sherlock found it easy to make John laugh. He would do or say things that he knew would make John laugh. There was no reason for him to steal that ashtray. He simply did it because he knew that it would make John smile. He had never loved seeing someone smile as much as he loved seeing John smile.

The ashtray in question sat proudly on the mantlepiece at home and every time John caught sight of it, he would smile. And every time John smiled, Sherlock smiled.


	8. Brotherhood

"I've got myself a girl back at home." Milo said, smiling sloppily. "She's the most beautiful girl you've ever laid your eyes on.

"Well I've got two kids and a wife." Roger responded. "You should hear my daughter Becky's voice. She's only seven, but she's got such a talent."

"What about you, Watson?" Theodore turned to John, who was scratching away at a letter. "Who have you got?" John smiled a little bit and shrugged.

"I'm not a good collector of friends, you know this, you've had to live with me."

"Well then say that it's your mum." Milo rolled his eyes. "But you write to someone once every week."

John shrugged. "It's my mum." He responded. They smiled at him, called him names playfully and returned to their discussion of their wives and girlfriends. John chuckled at them. They were all so lively, while John sat in the corner and wrote everything. He regarded these men as his brothers— they always had his back in the line of duty. They had created the bond that only soldiers could create, and John was happy to be a part of them. But there were some secrets that had to be kept from his family.

He looked back to his letter and decided to finish it. There wasn't much more that he could say.

As I said before, I miss you. I miss you more than anything, but I know you're doing fine without me. You've got that bloody skull as company. Give Mrs. Hudson my best, and Mycroft as well. Don't get killed, or I'll have no one to write to. I love you, Sherlock.

Love,

John.


	9. First Kiss

The circumstances were less than ideal, that is to say— no one wants to have their first kiss with an audience. Though John had to admit that technically, that was their first kiss.

Sherlock was talking about something at a million miles an hour, deducing to impress Lestrade or someone similar and John wasn't really paying attention. He'd heard something similar in the car on the way here. He tuned in somewhere in the middle of Sherlock's rant and was completely lost.

"—though the act of pressing ones lips against another's is probably flat and boring, I can't understand her desire to stick a tongue down her killer's throat—"

"That's not what kissing feels like." John said. "It doesn't feel 'flat and boring' unless it's a peck."

Sherlock frowned.

"What? If one is simply pressing their lips to another person—"

"An open-mouth kiss doesn't feel like that Sherlock." John stated. "Have you never kissed someone before?"

"I have…" Sherlock murmured. "Not open-mouthed… who would want that?"

"You have to kiss someone that you like." John said. "It's sort of unfulfilling if you just kiss a stranger like that. You're thinking of it technically, you need to think of it emotiona—"

Sherlock cut John off by pulling him in and pressing his barely-opened mouth to John's. John's eyes were wide in shock because Sherlock had caught him when his own mouth was open. He pressed Sherlock off of him.

"No!" John bristled. He glanced at Lestrade who had an amused smirk on his face. "Not… I'll… not right now." He said, a red tinge creeping up his cheeks. Sherlock blinked, confused, and pressed a finger to his lips tentatively.

Later, in the flat, when the yellow lights of the street lamps were the only lights in the living room, Sherlock had approached John, meaning to apologize. John cut him off. He took Sherlock's hand in his, pressing his open palm to Sherlock's. He looked Sherlock in the face, Sherlock's eyes blazing with the emotion they were so often devoid of. John closed his eyes and pressed his lips gingerly to Sherlock's. Sherlock hesitated but closed his eyes too, lacing his finger's with John's. When they had finished, John kissed Sherlock's nose and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

To be quite honest, it was never the first kiss that John told about. The second kiss was by far his favorite.


	10. Spaghetti

John was making dinner for once, and Sherlock walked into the kitchen, confused at all the noise.

"What are you making?"

"Pasta." John replied. "I'm so bad at knowing when it's done. I don't really like it too al dente but I usually overcook it." He said, stirring the boiling pot.

"Throw it against the wall." Sherlock shrugged. "It's a simple test. If it sticks, it's done."

Sherlock took the fork from John's hand and lifted a good amount of spaghetti strands. There was about half of the spaghettti dripping from his fork. John expected Sherlock to take a single noodle but exclaimed when Sherlock flung the whole forkful at the wall. One or two pieces stuck to the wall while the rest slid to the ground with a splat. There was a few seconds of silence before Sherlock turned to John.

"I think I did it wrong."

"Really?" John said sarcastically.

"Only one strand."

"Yes."

Sherlock bit his lip and John stared at him. John started to giggle as he caught sight of the spaghetti lying on the floor across the room from them. Sherlock chuckled and looked back inside the pot to see that there was a mere ten noodles in the boiling pot.

"So… what are you making?"

"A call out for Chinese." John laughed.


	11. Blowjob

Sherlock was terrible at sex. Both John and Sherlock had expected this— considering that Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in it. Sherlock would do and say things in bed that would make John laugh and sigh and the sexual air would be broken. Sherlock wouldn't realize this until John would roll over and told Sherlock not to touch him or to leave him alone.

The worst of everything was Sherlock's gag reflex. One time he had tried to wake John up with a treat but nearly threw up all over John's crotch. Instead of extracting moans of pleasure from John like he had wanted, John woke up laughing at Sherlock and his constant gagging. Sherlock sneered, his face flushed red and left the room.

John would get dresses and find Sherlock in the kitchen. He apologized to Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't hear any of it. He hadn't tried again with John for a while, even sleeping in his own room for a couple of nights.

A week or so later, Sherlock soundlessly slipped his way into John's bedroom. It was the morning, so John had an impressive morning erection, lying on his back. Sherlock slipped his boxers down to reveal it and smirked for a moment before descending upon it.

John awoke with a start and a moan, looking down and seeing Sherlock bobbing at his hips. He had to look twice to see if it was the man that he knew, he was working John with skill that he had never had before. John buried one hand in Sherlock's curls and the other gripped the headboard and held on for the ride. He whispered Sherlock's name as he finished. Sherlock slowly raised his head and looked John in his flushed face. He wore a smug smile.

"H… how?"

"Too many hours of porn… and a banana." Sherlock grinned. "I needed to redeem myself."

"Oh…" John breathed, still lost in the downswing of the pleasure he had just recieved. "Well… you did a good job."

Sherlock shrugged leaned in to kiss John. "I know."


	12. Brewski

The bottle slammed on the table, making John jump. He had snuck into the kitchen to get a juice box when his father caught sight of him. He froze and stared back, like a bunny caught in a light.

"What are you doing in here?" He said.

"Getting a… I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in here." John whispered.

"Get OUT!" He screamed, throwing an empty beer bottle at him. John ducked it and grabbed the whole pack of juice boxes and as much food as he could and sprinted to his room while he ran back to his room. "Go to BED!" he was still screaming when John had reached his room. Harry was sitting on her bed, hands covering her face, crying softly.

"Harry?" He whispered. "Harry! Don't cry, I've got your juice box!"

"Why is he so mean, John." Harry said in a tiny voice. peeking over her fingers. "Why is he so mean to us?"

"I don't know." John whispered. "But he's not allowed to be, alright? Now eat your dinner." Harry looked at the half a loaf of bread and chicken salad and took it reluctantly. "There's a good girl."

"I love you, John." Harry said, smiling through her tears.

John kissed the top of her head. "I love you too, little Harriet."


	13. Snog

Sherlock had come home early to catch John on the sofa with girlfriend #6, heavily involved with each other's faces. They had stopped abruptly and John hastily introduced them, but Sherlock wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about the split moment when he had seen John kissing another woman. He took in every little nuance that he had displayed— gently cupping the woman's face, his thumb stroking her cheek. She had placed her hand on John's knee, and John had placed his on top of hers. He was kissing her sweetly while she was kissing him hungrily.

Deduction: She wanted to have sex, John simply wanted to kiss.

Conclusion: John was not invested in this relationship

Sherlock smiled and shook her hand. He couldn't pinpoint why John's lack of conviction in this relationship pleased him. He smiled at the pair before leaving to his room with a chuckle.


	14. Pillow

Sherlock kept his favorite things in his pillow. Ever since he was little. He would never keep this pillow on his bed until he had to go to sleep at night, otherwise the maid would come in and show his parents his things. He kept his favorite resin in there. He stowed a sword necklace next to an eye patch. Eventually, he kept a little journal in the pillowcase, documenting everything and everyone— particularly the movement of the bees in his garden.

Adult Sherlock was just the same. He kept some of his favorite trinkets in his pillow, stowing them away from sight, touching them as he fell asleep.

John was tidying up one day and found all these things. He didn't mean to, but Sherlock's bed was a mess and he just wanted to straighten things up a bit. He lifted the pillow by is corner and a multitude of things dropped onto the bed. John gave a start. There was an old, tattered, leather-bound notebook, a very-used resin, a golden chain, and a photograph that was upside down. John flipped the photograph and gave a bit of a start when he saw that it was of him. Sherlock kept a photo of him in his pillow? John looked at the photo closely. He was smiling in a candid sort of way, looking off frame. He was sitting casually at a diner, the soft setting sun making his face look just that more serene. He didn't know that he ever looked like that. John always thought that he was annoyed, but this photo surely proved him wrong.

He wanted to unlatch the notebook, but he felt like that was going too far. He had already invaded Sherlock's privacy more than he should have, and he dumped the keepsakes back into the pillow. John knew that Sherlock was going to know that John found his secrets, but at least he would know that John didn't open his journal.

John left the room to think about Sherlock's little quirks, and how this one was, by far, the most normal. He also had a little smile on his face when he thought about Sherlock falling asleep with his fingers gingerly on the photo of John.


	15. Virgin

"What's the Virgin doing now…?" He simpered to Irene. Irene chuckled.

"Do you really call him that?"

"Well, Isn't he?" Jim said, eyes glinting. "News."

"He'll never be able to get into that phone. Don't worry." She said. "It's not a problem."

"You've got to come back to life." Jim said, picking his fingernails. "Get that phone back." He said. "Alright, dearest? Just in case." Irene's eyes flashed with shock, but Jim glared. "I'm not giving you an option." Irene backpedaled and nodded. She left the room and Jim Moriarty was left to sit in the bedroom alone, left to think about Sherlock.

There was no one that screamed virgin as much as Sherlock did. He was so smart, so intelligent and yet…. and yet he was such a child in some respects. Sexually, Jim would dominate him. He closed his eyes and smirked at the thought. He would absolutely dominate him. That brilliant mind turned to mush with the stroke of a finger; those cold, hard eyes pleading for more— he giggled madly at just the thought of Sherlock in that position—under him, beneath him. Truth be told, he didn't want Sherlock dead. He wanted to own Sherlock. He wanted to tie Sherlock in his basement and make him beg for Jim. He wanted his Virgin.


	16. Sand

Everywhere. It slipped into his boots, his underwear— he shook it out of his hair in the shower, he even spat it out. The great sandy expanse tried to take him more and more each day. Eventually he would become a part of the desert as it settled into his brain and his heart, as well as his lungs. John would kill to see a blade of grass. He probably wouldn't even mind the sand if it were wet and followed immediately by a great stretch of water.

But out here in the desert, there was just hot and sand, and it would become overwhelming before he would resign himself to its infinite space. He would pray to see wet sand.

In his final moments, he got his wish. The sand was wet with the blood of his Major, his leg four feet away from his body. Dead eyes staring at John for help. Amid the gunfire and explosion, Pinned underneath the weight of a dead soldier, John felt the sand grow firm and wet beneath his shoulder. He prayed to a God he didn't believe in to save him, to send him one last chance. He couldn't tell if he was screaming, or if it was all in his head— but John prayed.

Some of his final moments before he blacked out were, "If I survive, send me home. Because I would die rather than live in the middle of all this sand."


	17. Regret

Tell everyone how you knew him, John. Lestrade had asked. No one knew him like you did.

"Sherlock Holmes… was a great man." John started, his throat seizing up already. Mrs Hudson stepped towards him and rested a hand on his arm. He tried to steel himself. "He was… obnoxious. Intrusive. Sarcastic and probably the most honest man I have ever known." John looked up to try and keep the tears from spilling over. "He always searched for the truth. Even if no one wanted to know it but him. His skill was… magnificent, incomparable to another." John chuckled. "My only regret… is that I never told him…" A tear dropped from John's cheek. "I'm not sure that he…ever understood how much… how much he meant to me." John's jaw was trembling the tears dripping from his eyes steadily. "As much as he meant to the community… however many times he solved a case and was adored for it… he always returned home to me—" John sobbed, covering his mouth. He pressed on, "He always returned to 221b with a smile and some milk." His voice wavered and Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around him. "For everyone who couldn't believe that Sherlock could thrive in a domestic environment, he proved them wrong whenever we were home. He would make me tea and… play the… the violin whenever I had a night terror…" John swallowed, he was sobbing openly now. "And he would care for me when I was sick."

He could feel Mrs. Hudson's soft cries on his back.

"So believe me when I say… that no one on this earth will miss Sherlock as much as I will." He nodded. "And I only wish that I could've told him when I had the chance." John swallowed. He tripped his way off the stage with Mrs Hudson in tow.

"John…" Harry whispered, but John couldn't see her. "That was…"

"Do you know what the last thing I said to him?" John whispered, tearing up. "I said, 'Sometimes you irritate me to no end. You're impossible.' I said that. That was the last thing I ever said to him." John said. "I… I've never felt…. I can't believe—"

"He knew, John, he knew." Harry took him in her arms. "We all knew." John screwed his face up and cried into her shoulder, hugging her tightly.

"He's gone…" John whispered. "He's gone…."


	18. Don't

John sat on Sherlock's bed, the muted light creating soft shadows in the dark room. His eyes were closed as he breathed in his smell. Sherlock had been gone for two months and John still couldn't help but to sit in Sherlock's room and just breathe in his essence. The first time he walked into Sherlock's room a month ago, the smell had been fresh- new. It was fading a little bit every day, just like the sharp memories he had of his friend.

Mycroft opened the door soundlessly and stood in the doorway.

"John." He murmured. John didn't respond, he didn't even open his eyes. "John, I wanted to talk to you about the will. He made some last minute changes and… you've got quite the inheritance."

"I don't want the money or anything." John replied, opening his eyes slowly but not looking at Mycroft. "I just want him back."

"John." Mycroft said softly. "He's gone."

"Don't-" John whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You have to move on."

"I can't."

"You can."

"I won't."

"You must." Mycroft said. "What would he say if he saw you this way?"

" 'Why are you sniffling, John, everyone dies.' " John said. " 'You are too sentimental for your own good. See how it impedes your mind?' Yes. It's all I can think about."

"Well you have to listen to that." Mycroft said. "I won't pay for your went by myself."

John sighed. "Alright." he whispered.

"Be at my house at six this evening." Mycroft said. "I'll have you look over everything." He started to leave. "For the record, I don't blame you. Had the roles been opposite… it would be Sherlock sitting in your bed."

John clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes hut tight and tried to stop the tears from flowing. Mycroft closed the door softly and John let a tear roll down his cheek.

More than he could bear. It was more than he could bear.


	19. Webcam

Sherlock sat alone in the quiet room. The country was so boring, but it wasn't as though he had a choice. He was making his way discreetly to the continent, Irene Adler was helping him stay under the radar.

He sat with her computer open to a video screen. He had hacked his way into John's computer a while ago to check on him. Every time Sherlock checked on John's laptop, it was closed. He hadn't opened it in weeks. This time, Sherlock's heart leapt at the sight of his old flat, then plummeted at the sight of his old friend. John was sitting in his chair, his eyes closed and his face weary. John took a shuddering breath in and opened his eyes slowly. He was looking out the window for the longest time before he leaned forward towards Sherlock's chair. John's jaw quivered before he employed his army training to right it. John stood up and walked off screen.

Sherlock didn't know if he could take this. At first he thought that hacking John's webcam would be a good idea. He thought that he could check to make sure that John was still alive and it would be simple. But nothing was ever simple when it came to John. Sherlock wanted to go to him, he wanted to ease John's pain, but he couldn't. He needed to lay low for a while. It had only been a few months, and he already was doubting his ability to last for another week.

John returned on screen with Sherlock's scarf died over his shoulders and a blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock's eyes widened and he felt his heart break when John curled up in Sherlock's chair. His back was towards the computer camera and it was heaving with sobs. John would never do this if he thought that there was a possibility of someone seeing him. He hated to seem out of control. But he was curled up in Sherlock's chair, Sherlock's scarf around his neck and sobbing.

Sherlock closed the laptop quickly, unable to watch anymore. He closed his eyes and frowned, trying to ease of his own tears. A jingle in the front and Irene stepped through the front door.

"Hello precious." She purred. "Is that my laptop? Were you checking on John?" Sherlock nodded wordlessly. "Is he doing okay without you?"

Sherlock licked his lips and opened his eyes slowly. He took a steadying breath before replying.

"No, he's not." Sherlock tried at a smile, but it just twitched into the saddest expression that Irene had ever seen. "But neither am I."


	20. Liar

"My dad is an executive." Jim said smugly. "At a huge company. He's got so many people who go to him for advice and things. He's really important. He's a really important man." Jim crossed his legs. "Just like I am going to be. I'm going to be a really important man in the future." A crowd of children circled around Jim, listening to him tell tales of the man he called his father. He was in preschool, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked.

"Liar." a boy laughed. "You're such a liar, Jimmy." He kicked dust into Jim's face and Jim screamed as the dust hit his eyes. "You guys don't believe him, do you? he's just making it all up! I saw his dad once, and he's a drunk! He's just a stupid drunk that beats his kids." He laughed cruelly. "And you said you're going into the family business, right?" the group of young kids around him started tittering with the bully.

"Go away, Carl." little Jimmy glared at the boy from on the ground, covered in dirt. Somehow he still managed to look menacing.

"Whatever you dumb liar." Carl brushed off. "Freak."

* * *

><p>"We got a letter in the mail today." Mrs Moriarty said, her arms crossed in front of her. "From your school." Jim was ambushed as he came home from school that day. He had just turned twelve and had already pushed himself to the quietest part of the back of the room. He was picked on relentlessly.<p>

"Yeah?" He said, tiredly.

"They tested all of the children. They said that you were meant to be in advanced high school level classes. Possibly even University worthy."

Jim's eyebrows raised and an estactic little smile formed on his lips.

"They… they said that? Am I going to be moved into more challenging classes?"

"No, Jim." She sighed. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Cheat on your exam?" She said angrily. Jim stopped short. "I understand wanting to pass, but how on earth could you cheat so much that the school thinks that you should be in high school?"

Jim's wide eyes narrowed, his lower jaw jutting out just slightly in anger. He licked his lips harshly.

"I'm clever." He said shortly.

"No you're not, you're a liar." She said angrily. "I've cheated on a lot of tests when I was your age and obviously you are doing it way wrong."

"Just because you don't amount to anything doesn't mean that I can't." Jim said, his eyes dead and harsh. "So you can go pretend that absolutely no one in this entire world could possibly be smarter than a cheating bitch like you. But I am smarter than you. I am cleverer than you. And I am going to prove it one day."

Jim walked away before his mother could get in another word. His mother's denial of his intelligence stung more than he cared to admit. He threw his bag against the wall and screamed. He looked almost exactly like his mother, but he gained his off-the-wall temper from his father. He punched dents into the wall before he fell limp on the bed, face flushed with anger, eyes blazing. He wanted to kill something. He wanted to kill something…

* * *

><p>Jim was sobbing while giving the interview. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe that his parents would die in such a freak accident. Now he was left alone in this world and have to pay for Uni on his own! How could he go through life without a father to love or a mother to hold?<p>

"I don't know how I'll go on, I don't know what I'll do…" Jim sobbed. "I miss them so much."

A gas tank that exploded and killed so many people that Jim knew— his parents, a few of his teachers— his next door neighbors… It was a real tragedy. Jim couldn't believe cameras caught his baby-faced adolescence, his wide eyes pink with tears.

The cameras stopped recording. The cameras were packed away. He was given a tissue. The door shut.

The room was empty.

The house was quiet.

A small smirk curled Jim's lips as he split his mouth open and giggled,

_"Liar."_


	21. Penny

Lestrade got home late that night, his head slightly buzzed with the drinks that he had. He threw his jacket carelessly over the side of the armchair and fell onto the couch. He laid down, facing the television but after a moment's thought, he didn't turn it on. He didn't want to alert his wife to his arrival. He heard his phone beep.

He groaned. He knew that text alert.

He'd had more than enough Holmes for one day. He dug in his pocket for his phone and glanced at the text from Mycroft.

_I've got a job for you. Call me as soon as you get this. MH_

Lestrade dropped his phone to the carpeted floor and he rubbed his face. He was not feeling it right now. Usually he liked it when Mycroft paid attention to him. But now wasn't the time. He just wanted to sleep. The phone beeped two more times before it just started to ring.

Lestrade moaned, rolling over.

"What?" He said irritably.

"Come now, Lestrade. Don't you want a taste of adventure?"

"Leave me alone, Mycroft. I'm exhausted having to deal with your brother all day."

"I know." Mycroft said. "But as I had to spend a good portion of the first 14 years of my life with him, I have little sympathy. Now onto the matter at hand." Lestrade could hear Mycroft's smirk. "Would you like to meet me for dinner tomorrow night?"

"Whatever you want to say to me, you can tell me right now, Mycroft." Lestrade said.

"Okay, you are going to meet me for dinner tomorrow night and we will discuss our matters there."

"Mycroft—"

"Things are too sensitive to speak of over the phone." Mycroft reasoned.

"Alright, alright!" Lestrade sighed. "You know you have enough power to get your profile on the penny."

Mycroft chuckled. "And I'd have you fill your pockets with those pennies, Greg."

Lestrade's stomach squirmed oddly at Mycroft's usage of his first name.

"Yeah." Lestrade sighed. "And I probably would, too."

Mycroft snickered. "Dinner tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Never, your highness." He replied sarcastically before Mycroft hung up. They had been going to dinner with such frequency that Lestrade was starting to become suspicious of Mycroft's true intentions. He didn't mind it much, though. Mycroft seemed to be alone most of the time and he sort of felt bad for him.

Lestrade rolled over in the quiet. He reached into his pocket and felt around for the change. He thumbed the penny, imagining Mycroft's face upon it. He fell asleep with a sort of smirk on his face.


	22. Remote

"Sherlock…" John said, shifting the cushions and bending to look under the couch. "Sherlock, where's the remote?"

"Hm? Oh." He shrugged. "I needed it for parts."

"Parts? Parts for what?" John sighed. Sherlock didn't answer but kept measuring and mixing chemicals. "You know what, I don't even want to know." John went to go turn the TV on and fixed it on a channel that he thought he would enjoy.

* * *

><p>Later, much later, John was stretching and yawning. He had been all over the flat on this lazy day— fixing himself tea, getting the mail, blogging and watching telly. Sherlock had barely moved an inch. He was glued to his microscope. John murmured a sleepy 'goodnight' and Sherlock supplied nothing in return.<p>

John had just settled into his bed when he heard a strange noise come from under his bed. He groaned. Sherlock was probably doing some strange experiment downstairs. John rolled over on his stomach. With one final groan, the bed bolted upwards, raising itself sharply at a 70 degree angle. John bellowed as he was flung to the floor, his heart beating madly. He heard Sherlock's exclamation from downstairs. John stomped down the stairs angrily.

"What the bloody hell was that about?"

SHerlock shrugged, pulling out the remote control. "It was an experiment."

"What the hell could scaring me half to death and flinging me from my bed prove."

Sherlock shrugged, unable to repress his smile.

"I wanted to see range."

"And you had to test it while I was in my bed?"

SHerlock shrugged, his face full split. "No. But it was worth it, don't you think."

John looked at Sherlock exasperatedly. A small laugh escaped him.

"Remote control bed. Sherlock has made my bed… remote control." He shook his head and laughed. "Completely mental-my life with you... is_ completely_ mental." John snatched the remote out of Sherlock's hands.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm sleeping in your room. No funny business." John said. He made sure that he checked under Sherlock's bed before resting on it.

Just before he fell asleep he set a timer for 4 in the morning, the only time that John knew for certain that Sherlock craved a bed. He would be in John's bed.

John pressed a button in the early morning hours, heard the mechanical screech of a bed standing upright and the woozy exclamations from a man who had been dropped from it.

John giggled into Sherlock's pillow and tucked the remote into the sides of the bed. He was never bored.


	23. Beach

The swell pulsed as John dug his toes into the sand. He had always loved coming to the ocean front as a kid. His mother's family had family members that lived nearby. His childhood was filled with sandcastles and seashells. There was something calming about the salt and the wind. John closed his eyes. The overcast day was too cold for tourists so he was the only one on the beach. He heard his phone ping, and it annoyed him slightly. He pulled it out and saw the text from Sherlock.

_Where are you? SH_

John sighed softly and responded,

_I'm at the beach. I needed some calm._

John placed the phone next to him and laid down on the cold, shifty sand and closed his eyes. He waited for a long time for Sherlock to reply. The phone never rung again, but he felt the sand shift next to him as a body laid down beside him.

John didn't say anything, he didn't even open his eyes as Sherlock laid silently by him. The seaside silence was the best silence two people could share. A gull was always cackling, the ocean always hushing. It was a beautiful moment and John absolutely reveled in it.

The beach was more than a stretch of sand and a foamy blue expanse. It was a home.


	24. Pirates

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, coming into the room. He had a couple of books that his tutor had dropped off. "Sherlock, Mr. Darwin has left you some books—"

Upon opening the door, he saw Sherlock scrambling to hide an eyepatch and a hat under his bed. He stood, straight-backed, biting his lip. He was still wearing boots and hid a sword behind his back.

"Yes, very good, please leave them on the table there." Sherlock said briskly in his little voice. The boy still had long curls cupping his bony shoulders, an over-large striped shirt hanging loosely on his body.

"… What are you doing—"

"Nothing." SHerlock said much too quickly. Mycroft smiled and Sherlock scowled.

"You don't have to pretend. Everyone plays dress-up at one point or another."

"I'm not playing dress up."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised. "You're not are you?"

"No."

"What is it that you're doing then?"

Sherlock hesitated, his chin high. "…research."

"Yes, of course." Mycroft nodded. Sherlock sneered. "All the swashbuckling you could possibly endure." Sherlock breathed through his nose angrily as Mycroft turned away, chuckling. "Red truly is your color, brother."

"Out!" he shouted before Mycroft shut the door. Sherlock as a pirate. It was nice to know that there was a shred of childhood in the otherwise serious boy.


	25. Adoption

"John, I'm going to need you to run down to the store to pick up a couple of things—" Sherlock stopped dead at the sight of a ginger woman in tears, a black-haired baby on her knee. John was consoling her. "Harry Watson, I presume." Sherlock said.

"Yes." She said, passing the baby to John, wiping her eyes and standing up. "I'm sorry that I've come over here like this." Sherlock's eyes darted from Harry to John.

"Why are you here?" he asked Harry.

"You already know that, don't you?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "You were left a child that you know that you can't take care of, and you're wary about just letting it go into the system. Godchild?"

Harry nodded.

"And I was just… I was trying to help her out." John said, cradling the sleeping child. Sherlock looked from the baby to John. There was something else. Something more.

"You… you couldn't possibly believe—"

"Sherlock—"

"No. No, absolutely not—" Sherlock said seriously.

"With every woman I've ever dated, this is what I've seen. A family. I want a family, Sherlock— I want to be a dad." He cradled the child closer. "Harry can't take care of it, and I supposed—"

"You think that it would be better for the child to live in this environment? It's not guaranteed that we will come home every night, let alone be able to tuck it into bed and sing it a nursery rhyme."

"Her name is Daniella." John said defensively. Sherlock took a deep breath in and closed his eyes. "Just think about it." John pleaded. "Please, Sherlock. For me."

Sherlock turned his eyes away. He nodded once and John tucked the baby in closer to himself.

"Thank you." John said.


	26. Curtains

"I can't see him." Sebastian murmured into the walkie talkie. "He's got his curtains drawn and he's changed the lights so the silhouette is impossible to distinguish." The control beeped and Jim's voice sighed over the com.

"What's the point of having such large windows if he's just going to keep the curtains pulled the entire time?" Jim grumbled.

"Maybe he's fearful for his life." Sebastian snickered. Jim laughed.

"Mycroft Holmes, having to hide in his own home." Jim said in a singsong voice. "Come home, Seb. I've got a little present for you."

"Target practice?" Sebastian asked, taking apart his gun.

"No, silly." Jim said. "We're giving manicures." his soft voice was dripping with evil.

Sebastian's face split into a harsh smile. "On my way."

"Hurry sweetheart, dinner is getting cold…" Jim simpered. Sebastian snickered before putting his gun completely away.

Sebastian's gravelly voice was completely opposite of Jim's soft one as he responded, "Yes dear."


	27. Redemption

The rain was pouring as Mycroft sat in his house alone, the dinner table was too large and too empty. A storm raged outside as he closed his eyes and listened.

"Hello, brother." Sherlock said dangerously. "How have you been?"

Mycroft opened his eyes slowly in surprise, slowly making way to acceptance.

"You look much better than the last time I saw you." Sherlock was dripping on the fancy tile floor, his head held high. "How have you been this past year?"

"You told Moriarty everything about me." Sherlock said dangerously. Mycroft closed his eyes.

"I did."

"What do you expect to do to repay me?"

Mycroft swallowed and stood. "Moriarty left behind a man. He wants to avenge his… partner's… death as much as John would want to avenge yours." Sherlock's breath picked up.

"He swore that the guns would be called back."

"Well, this man seems to have a mind of his own." Mycroft said seriously. "He's been targeting John. I've been giving him as much protection as I could possibly muster."

"But you thought that I was dead."

Mycroft nodded once. "You were very convincing."

"So then why would you do this?"

"Because it's what you would've wanted." Mycroft said, not looking him in the eye. "And because I owe you. I'm just looking to be redeemed."

Sherlock clenched his fists.

"We've averted four attempts on his life without him even knowing. He's safer and he doesn't even know it."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for the longest time before finally speaking again.

"You can't tell him that I'm alive."

"I know."

"Please continue to protect him." Sherlock said.

"I will."

Sherlock tightened his face and finally muttered,

"Thank you, brother."

"You're welcome. And I am… dreadfully sorry."


	28. Heterosexual

He was definitely. Certainly. He'd never been interested in the male genitalia, not even when his best friend had admitted to being gay in high school and showed interest. He had never thought about having sex with a man— being in a relationship with a man— or anything of that sort.

So why couldn't he get Sherlock out of his head?

He had called Harry for help, much to his displeasure. He hated asking Harry for help. She tried to explain to him about sexual orientation and said things like latent homosexuality and possibily bisexuality, but John grew uncomfortable and stopped listening to her. He thanked her for her help and hung up.

He would look at nude men late at night to try and see if he could explain his sudden attraction to Sherlock. None of these men were attractive to him. None of them aroused him like women did. He found none of them attractive so how the hell did he find Sherlock so attractive?

He dreamed about seducing Sherlock, about kissing every inch of his flesh. He dreamed about making love to Sherlock but he didn't find any other man attractive at all. He was heterosexual, but he was dreaming about his best friend in ways that was much more than a man should dream.

It frustrated him, it annoyed him, it filled him with longing. He was an incredibly heterosexual man with incredibly homosexual feelings.

Eventually, he accepted that it was a freak thing with his sexuality. It was an easy thing to accept once he was lying down in Sherlock's arms.


	29. 11:11

"Close your eyes and make a wish." John said.

"Why?" the little girl asked, he tiny fingers gripping the spoon as she shoveled cereal into her mouth. Her black hair was tied up with a ribbon and her wide blue eyes looked up at her daddy inquisitively.

"Don't you see? It's 11:11." John said, happily. "You make a wish and tell no one, or else it doesn't come true."

"Like at birthdays." She said.

"Yes, just like at birthdays." John smiled.

"And this happens every day?" She said, frowning. "I get a birthday wish, every day?"

"It doesn't really have the same merit as a birthday wish, but you can make a wish all the same."

"I don't understand." She said. Sherlock walked into the the kitchen and greeted his daughter with a kiss on top of the head.

"Hi, Dad." Daniella said, smiling. "Papa said that I get a wish every day."

"What?" Sherlock frowned. John sighed. Sherlock the realist was about to come in and smash the childhood innocence. Again.

"Papa said that every day at 11:11 I get a Birthday wish." She looked up at Sherlock. "Is that true."

"Of course it's not, Daniella." Sherlock said tiredly. He looked at John. "John, what are you telling her? Birthday wishes apply for your whole life, while 11:11 wishes apply for other people only."

John's eyes widened and his mouth split into a smile as Sherlock leaned down to his daughter.

"You have to wish only for other people. And you can't tell anyone about it, or else it won't come true."

"So birthday wishes are worth more?"

"To yourself, yes." Sherlock said seriously. "And 11:11 wishes are worth less because they happen every day. But just hope for little things. Make someone's day."

"Okay, Daddy. As long as you say it's true."

"Of course it is." He said, standing up and smiling. "Wishes are a very serious thing."

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock right on the mouth, much to Sherlock's surprise.

"So what's your wish, John?" Sherlock murmured.

"I think it's already come true."


	30. Sick

John rolled over on his stomach, his head weighing a thousand pounds, his eyes sore in his skull.

"Bughrhhg…" he groaned. This was not a way to wake up. "Sherlock…" He grumbled. "Sherlock!"

"Yes?" Sherlock appeared at the door, leaning on its frame.

"Could you please get Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's away." Sherlock crossed his arms. John groaned and rubbed his head.

"Could you make me some tea?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm bloody sick, that's why!" John sat up on his elbows, his head spinning as he faced Sherlock. "Please, just for this once could you make me some tea?"

"I… guess I could."

When Sherlock brought the tea up, he found that John had left his room, and was retching in the bathroom. He set the tray down on a table near the bed and stood in the doorway to the bathroom.

"The tea is ready." He said. John replied by heaving without anything coming up. He wiped his mouth with some toilet tissue and flushed the toilet. His fingers were shaking and he was very pale. He made his way to stand up, but fell over. Sherlock caught him and tried to help him to stand on his own again, but John couldn't do it.

"Don't baby me," he groaned.

"I'm not. I'm helping you stand on your own feet." Sherlock said, dropping John onto his bed and pulling the covers over John's body, tucking him in.

"Has it got honey?" John rubbed his forehead.

"Yes." Sherlock poured the tea and handed it to John. "Is there anything else you want me to do?"

"Probably." John said, sipping at the tea. "But you probably won't do anything."

"I'll do a little bit more than usual." Sherlock shrugged. "Not much, but a little."

"I'll call you." John yawned. "Thank you, Sherlock." he said tiredly. "You're the greatest for this."

"I'm the greatest for general reasons."

"Oh, shut up." John put the teacup down and nestled into the covers. Sherlock smiled and turned away.


End file.
